


trash talking

by trashsenal



Category: Daredevil (TV), Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Iron Fist (TV), Jessica Jones (TV), Luke Cage (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Explicit Language, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Lots of it, anyways enjoy, bc the defenders are equally as messed up as the guardians but in a different sense, i was trying to sleep when i thought of how a convo between jess and rocket would go, lo siento, que estoy haciendo, rocket really found himself an equally messed up set of people to hang w on earth, so then i had to write it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-10 08:46:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11123793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashsenal/pseuds/trashsenal
Summary: “Come on out, asshole, you’re lucky I’m not calling pest control.” Jessica huffs pointlessly, as if the raccoon could understand her, when her second kick yields no results. “Or charging you.”“Yeah, okay.” An all-too-human voice snarks back from inside the bin almost immediately. “You can’t charge for shit, lady. The least I could’ve done was end up in some billionaire's trash.”ORRocket Raccoon meets the Defenders. It goes as well as you’d think.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I guess I'm back to writing for Marvel lmao

It’s exactly Jessica’s luck to have to take out the trash herself because she forgot to set it out for someone else to take care of. She makes sure to put on her most approachable face-- one that says “don’t smile at me, don’t look at me, don’t even _breathe_ near me”-- as she trudges down the hall, trash bag in hand, in the perfectly respectable professional attire of pajama pants with cats on them (a very old gag gift from Trish) and a tattered hoodie that smells like whiskey. On the way to the elevator, she grabs Malcolm’s trash, too, not because she’s a good neighbor, but because he’s fucking forgetful as well.

New York is cold in the mornings. The chill motivates her to get this done quicker. Opening the bin, she tosses the trash bags inside. When hers goes in, there’s a yelp. It sounds animalistic. Squinting, she catches a glimpse of gray fur and white stripes. A cat? Maybe, but most likely a raccoon. Little shits. She kicks the side of the dumpster, hoping to get it out. Not because she’s an asset to the cleanliness and maintenance of this building, but because pests are fucking _nasty._

“Come on out, asshole, you’re lucky I’m not calling pest control.” Jessica huffs pointlessly, as if the raccoon could understand her, when her second kick yields no results. “Or charging you.”  
  
“Yeah, okay.” An all-too-human voice snarks back from inside the bin almost immediately. “You can’t charge for shit, lady. The least I could’ve done was end up in some billionaire’s trash.”

Jessica blinks. “What?”  
  
“I _said,_ ” The voice repeats irritably. There’s some rummaging. “The least I could’ve done was end up in some billionaire’s trash.”  
  
“You want me to direct you to one?” Jessica can’t help herself from snapping back, for a second forgetting that there’s _probably_ a talking raccoon in her dumpster. Either that or a person. She kind of hopes it’s the first.

“Oh, c’mon, _you_ don’t know any billionaires-- hey, _watch it!”_  
  
It’s certainly not the first time Jessica has dug through the trash, and it probably won’t be the last. She grabs hold of a furry gray tail, and yanks up its owner through a couple of trash bags. She finds herself staring at exactly what she thought was inhabiting the dumpster-- a raccoon, except it’s wearing some sort of leather jumpsuit that seems to be riddled with bullet holes. With a heave of its furry body, it lurches upwards to bite her hand; its sharp little teeth sink painfully into her skin, and she drops it back into the trash.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” She snaps, slamming the lid back on it when it tries to make a run for it. Her hand stings. Rabies is _just_ what she needs. Cursing, she climbs up on the lid and sits on it. Beneath her, the raccoon-- if that’s even what it truly is-- pounds against the metal. Jessica kicks the dumpster violently with her heel when it starts violently screaming for release.

“You’re a raccoon.” She says, loud enough where it can hear her. “You’re a fucking raccoon.”  
  
“Yeah and you’re an animal abuser.” It remarks. “Now let me the fuck out so I can narc on you.”  
  
“You can _talk.”_

“But at least _I_ don’t look batshit talking to a dumpster.”  
  
This is when Jessica decides she’d either drunk too much last night or she hadn’t drunk enough. She’s dealt with some weird shit, but a talking raccoon is a stretch even for her.

“What are you?” She asks. “And why are you in _my_ trash?”  
  
“I already told you, I’m a raccoon. Apparently. And I crashed my ship on Earth by accident.” The raccoon explains. “It’s a long ass story.”  
  
His ship. He crashed his ship on Earth by accident. Of course. This is _exactly_ the kind of shit Jessica wants to stay out of, but inevitably gets into. As if Kilgrave weren’t enough, as if a ninja death cult infiltrating the city weren’t enough, now she’s faced with a talking raccoon from outer space. She needs a drink, but Malcolm threw all of her booze out.

“Now, are you gonna let me out?” It pipes up. “I’ve got intergalactic criminals to con, and the faster you let me out of this thing, the faster we can both forget this ever happened.”  
  
Jessica slowly climbs off the dumpster. The lid flings up before she’s even fully off, bruising her. Cursing, she swats at the raccoon, but it jumps down to the ground and lands on its back legs. In its paws are two bottles of Jack Daniels-- one empty, the other unopened. It smashes the empty one on the wall behind it, shattering the glass, and holds it menacingly towards her with a snarl.

“Didn’t I just say we could both forget about this?” It bares the sharp teeth that had gotten acquainted with her hand. “You don’t try to smack me--”  
  
She aims a strong kick towards the thing-- if it could talk, it could have super strength-- and sent it sprawling on its back like a roach. It growls, flipping over, but Jessica is faster; she places her foot on its back to make sure it stays in place. It really looks like a roach now. She bends down to snatch the broken bottle of its grasp, and throws it into the back of the alley. She wrenches the booze out of its other hand, too.

“Wow,” It hisses. “A girl with cat pajamas and fuzzy slippers is threatening me. I’m _shaking.”_

Jessica applies more pressure, drawing another yelp out of the creature. If the Humane Society happened to walk by her building she’d be in deep shit, but quite frankly, she could care less about being a so-called animal abuser at this point.  
  
“Listen,” She growls, baring her own teeth. “I don’t know who you are, what you are, or what you think you’re doing, but you’re gonna get the fuck out of my goddamn dumpster, and you’re gonna get the fuck out of this goddamn city. There’s too much shit going on for talking vermin to be roaming these streets. You got it?” She presses down even more for emphasis. “Good.”

Slowly, she releases him. It splutters and gets back on its hind legs and shakes  itself off. Its beady little eyes glisten maliciously. It picks up the bottle of Jack, but Jessica raises a brow.

“Leave the booze.” She warns calmly. “Or I’m going to skin you.”

It makes an ugly face, but obeys nonetheless. Slowly, it sets the bottle down. Jessica is about to threaten it one last time, but suddenly the animal scurries off with the bottle in hand.

_“YOU THOUGHT, LADY, YOU REALLY THOUGHT!”_

Jessica swears again as its taunts grow fainter and takes off after it. Most of the time she doesn’t give a damn about what she does, but now she truly cares about releasing a talking raccoon into New York City with a bottle of Jack.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a big thanks to everyone that reviewed!

Danny is in the middle of a vaguely important business call when his car abruptly stops. His chauffeur gets all flustered, says they hit something, probably an animal of some sorts, but he holds up a hand and tells him it’s no big deal. Still, though, he tells his caller he’ll call them back and gets out of the car to check on what exactly it was they’d just turned into roadkill. A raccoon lays in a heap in front of the car. There doesn’t seem to be any blood, which is odd. But what Danny finds even stranger is that the raccoon is wearing some sort of costume. Maybe it’s someone’s pet?  
  
“Mr. Rand,” His chauffeur exits the car looking every bit as guilty as he did before Danny told him it was all good. He looks down at the raccoon with a wrinkled nose, but sounds relieved. “Is everything alright? Would you like me to call animal control for you?”  
  
“Yeah, that’s perfect.” He nods. “You can head back to the car. I just want to get a look at these dents.”  
  
Truth be told, he doesn’t care much about the car. After all, it’s just a car. What he _really_ wants to know is why the raccoon’s weird costume looks like armor. He doesn’t judge people by what they do with their pets unless it’s cruel, but that’s exactly it-- it might be someone’s pet. He feels bad. Then, as if empathizing with him, the raccoon perks its ears up.

“Hey, little guy.” He crouches, feeling as if the weight of the world was just taken off his shoulders. “You okay?”  
  
“Does it _look_ like I’m okay?”

Danny stares at the slowly stirring pile of fur. He had _not_ expected an answer, but he’d somehow just gotten one.

“I mean, you try getting hit with a goddamn car, pretty boy.” The raccoon tries sitting up, but collapses with a furious growl. “You wouldn’t be such a looker then.” It groans, placing a paw on its heaving side. “Ah, fuck. I think my ribs are broken.”

Danny’s seen some strange things. He’s _been_ through some strange things. The very essence of his persona is classified as a strange thing. But even in K’un L’un, animals didn’t talk, so he was pretty sure they didn’t in this dimension either. Still, though. A talking animal would be the least weird thing he'd ever dealt with.

“What _are_ you?” He asks it.

Its black eyes narrow, but a raccoon can only be so intimidating even if it _did_ talk. Danny notices its costume is filled with what looks like char and burn marks. Okay, maybe it is a _bit_ unnerving.

“What?” It retorts. “Did you just ask _what_ I am? Y’know, a better question would be _who_ , because last I checked it’s pretty fucking _rude_ to ask people _what_ they are.” It pauses, sneering. “I mean, what are _you_ , huh? A rich dude, that’s what. Looking like a goddamn idiot sitting there, acting like you’re sympathetic or something. But you probably just care about the Rocket-shaped dent in your fancy ass rich boy car.” It spits on the pavement. “You’re welcome.”

“Rocket?” Danny prompts, ignoring everything else. “Is that your name?”

“You didn’t answer _my_ question.”  
  
“Well.” He answers. “I’m Danny Rand. I’m the immortal Iron Fist.”  
  
There’s a silence where the only noise is cars on another distant road and the screaming of cicadas in the trees. Then, ‘Rocket’ bursts out laughing. It’s loud and boisterous, it rises straight from his gut. Soon enough, it turns into pained coughing.

“Ah, fuck.” The raccoon mutters, yet again clutching at his sides. Then, it throws its head back and howls with laughter again. “The _immortal_ Iron Fist. Jesus, do you know how fucking _lame_ that sounds? What do you even do? Oh, oh, when you use your powers on people do you tell them they just got,” It giggles uncontrollably. “ _Fisted?_ Iron Fist, Christ, that’s _great.”_  
  
Danny assumes it's most definitely not a pet. He gets up off the ground, and taps lightly on his chauffeur's window for him to roll it down.  
  
“Hey, Maurice,” He starts, glancing back towards the front of the car. “Hold off on calling animal control if you haven’t already. Our friend down there is alive, just a little bruised.”

“Of course, Mr. Rand.” Maurice nods, though Danny notices the way he curiously tries to peer out the windshield. He’s probably wondering where the near maniacal laughter comes from. “Is there any damage done to the car?”  
  
“A bit. Don’t worry about it. I’ll be right back.”  
  
He hadn’t even checked for it, but if the talking raccoon was right, there was certainly a dent. Again, though, no worries. He crouches back down, careful to stay out of sight of his chauffeur. Rocket the raccoon doesn’t look much better. He likes to think he pays his employee enough that they won’t judge him for bringing almost roadkill home.

“So, Rocket.” He starts again cautiously. “Can I call you Rocket?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Uh, where exactly are you from?” He continues, recalling how touchy they-- he? She? It didn’t sound right-- got when he asked what they were.

Rocket spits again. It’s tinged red with blood. “Nunya.”  
  
“Nunya?”  
  
“Nunya as in none-of-ya business.”

Danny sighs. “Okay. Is there anything I can do to make up for running you over?”

“I dunno, you got healing powers or something? Because my ribs are killing me.”

“Actually, yes, I can heal you.”  
  
“Oh, okay.” Rocket nods, looking placated. “So, does that mean when you heal someone… You… _Fist_ them? Because in that case, I could use a good fisting.”  
  
The raccoon bursts into another fit of giggles. Danny realizes he _really_ should’ve seen that one coming from a distance. He exhales deeply, and digs his wallet out of his back pocket.

“Here,” He counts out some bills from the wallet and hands them to a smug Rocket. He then gets up. “I don’t know what you’ll do with it, but take it. I’m sorry I ran you over.”  
  
The creature looks confused. He glances down at the bills as if they might be counterfeit. “Is that… It?”  
  
“You want more?” Danny raises a brow.  
  
“You kinda ran me over. You’re lucky I ain’t trying to press legal charges.”  
  
Ah, yes, a talking raccoon pressing legal charges. Danny tries to imagine Rocket trying to convince some poor attorney to take his case, and almost laughs. The raccoon extends his paw, making a grabbing gesture.  
  
“What?” Danny almost snaps. He slaps his furry little arm away. “What do you want?”  
  
“I mean, if you’re offering more…” Rocket drawls. “You might as well hand over your entire wallet.”

Danny just shakes his head, but empties out his wallet of everything but his credit card and his ID. Hell, Rocket could definitely keep some of the business cards in there. He hands over everything else, but Rocket still looks unsatisfied.

“Ah. I said the wallet, too.”  
  
He complies, but has to remind himself not to lose control.

“Nice.” The raccoon comments, running his paw over the leather. “Nice, nice, nice. Anyways, that’s it. Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Fist. Whoops, sorry, Mr. _Immortal_ Fist.”  
  
Danny rolls his eyes and gets back into his car. Maurice looks like he has questions, but probably forgets all about them when he’s told to floor it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can you tell I'm having fun writing this?


	3. Interlude

Claire thinks the raccoon is kind of cute till it starts talking. But even then, she simply sighs and lets him into her apartment, because, honestly? She’s Claire Temple and she’s never going to escape meeting people-- and animals, she supposes-- like this. She doesn’t even question it anymore.

“I’m not a vet,” She warns the raccoon before sitting him on the couch where others have almost bled to death before. “So, I don’t exactly know what I can do for you. Can you take painkillers?”  
  
“I’m tolerant to pretty much anything.” He shrugs. “That’s what experimentation does to you, y’know, they shove a punch of shit down your throat and what almost kills you really does make you stronger.”   
  
“Ooo-kay.” Claire doesn’t know what else to say. He’s another one of _those._ Just replace the experimentation part with ninja training and he’d sound very much like someone else she knows. “Who, uh, experimented on you?”

“Some assholes in space.”   
  
Right. She hands him some ibuprofen, which he swallows dry, and feels up his torso. “Fractured ribs.” She gives her verdict. “Not broken, luckily. What the hell happened?”   
  
“Some guy named Danny Rand ran me over with his car.”   
  
Claire squeezes him out of surprising, making him snarl. “Watch it!”   
  
“ _You_ watch it,” She counters, hitting him lightly over the snout. “Don’t bare your teeth at me. Now, what was that about Danny Rand running you over?”   
  
“Friend of yours?”   
  
“Something like that.”   
  
The raccoon scoffs. “‘Course. Tell your friend to come up with a better alias than ‘Iron Fist’. It sounds fucking stupid.”

“He should stop telling people his alias at all.” Claire snorts. “Things like that are kept secret for a reason. Anyways, you got a name?”  
  
“Rocket. Don’t take this the wrong way, lady, but you’re the most decent person I’ve met on Earth.”   
  
“That’s… Wow.” She nods, taking a seat across from him. “I mean, thanks. There’s a lot of people on Earth, you realize that?”   
  
“No shit, but most of the ones I’ve met are assholes. I told you about your friend. I mean, I made him give me his wallet as compensation, but he couldn’t take my jokes about fisting. And then people treat me even _more_ like vermin than they do out in the galaxy. The day when I crashed, I found myself in a dumpster. Some lady dug me out of it and kicked me, talking about how there’s too much shit going on here for talking vermin to roam the streets.” He barks a laugh. “And she tried to take my booze.”

Claire frowns. “Did she have black hair? About my height? Wore a leather jacket?”  
  
“Nah, some ugly ass cat pajamas.”   
  
Jessica wearing cat pajamas? She couldn’t see it, but Rocket’s description was enough. “Have you, ah, met the Devil?”   
  
“The Devil? What are you talking about, lady?”   
  
“He’s another vigilante.” Claire explains, amused at how _weird_ that sounds to the talking raccoon from outer space. “Daredevil. He’s not exactly a team player.”   
  
“Yeah, well, neither am I. Tell him to stay out of my way while I’m here. Also, you seem to know the weirdest people in this city."   
  
She smiles. “That I do."   
  
She gets up to hand him a blanket. He looks at it with the biggest look of confusion on his face. She takes it back-- he’s still a cute raccoon even if he is a little bit of a dick.

“You can stay here tonight.” She pats his fluffy head. “I don’t mind.”

Who’d have thought a talking raccoon would be her best patient?


	4. Chapter 4

“I need a lawyer."

Typically, those words are music to a struggling attorney’s ears. However, they tend to come from people and not animals, as it seems. Matt decides he may be blind, but even he can discern that an _animal_ just walked in his office and made an inquiry about legal counsel.

“You’re an animal.” He says, quite matter-of-factly. It’s his Lawyer Voice.

“Yeah, and you’re _rude.”_ The creature in front of his desk scoffs. “No wonder you don’t have any customers, calling people animals the second they walk into your dump of an office. Anyways, are you Murdock?”  
  
Well, his “dump” of an office smelled much better before the talking animal scurried into it. The creature carries with it an odor of trash, cheap liquor, gunpowder and blood. The last two he could maybe forgive, but he’s sure the stench of trash will linger in his office for hours if not days. Its little heart thumps against its fractured ribs; they expand, creaking, painfully with every intake of air. It’s a familiar sound. Matt picks up on the thick scent of motor oil, the rubber of tires, and cocoa butter lotion.

“I am.” He answers, still aloof.

“And you’re a lawyer?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Okay, so here’s the deal. I need to sue some douchebag named Danny Rand for running me over.”  
  
“I’m a defense attorney.”  
  
Out of all the things he could’ve said, this seems the most effective in turning the creature down. He still has so many questions, however. The first, and perhaps the most important, is why and how this _thing_ talks. The second is probably how it managed to get run over by one of New York’s billionaires. If anything, it certainly explains the scent of motor oil and rubber that clings to its fur. And the third is, out of all the attorneys in Manhattan, why it came to _him._ This is a new low in regards to his practically non-existent clientele.

“And… What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” He explains, still keeping his voice level. “That I keep people out of jail. Not put them in it.”

“So, hypothetically, if I got him to sue me for property damage to his car… You could help me, and I could get a fuck ton of money out of him?”

Matt sighs. He didn’t go to law school to provide legal counsel to a talking rodent. “Hypothetically, if you were to get sued, the trial wouldn’t go through because animals, even if they demonstrate human-like abilities, don’t have legal standing in this state.”  
  
Or any, he’s sure of it. Also, he’s pretty sure Danny Rand, from what the media says, wouldn’t sue an animal even if it drove off in his car.

“Well, _that’s_ fucking unfair.” The creature snorts. “I thought it was bad in the galaxy, where I’m nothing but a fucking number, but at least there I was still kind of part of the legal system because they threw me in jail a couple of times. Terra and its _equality_ can suck my dick.” It pauses. “I made air quotes, by the way. Figured you wouldn’t know since you’re either blind or some dumbass that wears shades indoors.”  
  
“I’m sorry.” Matt says, and, honestly? He somewhat means it. Cases like these-- impossible, no _locus standi,_ hopeless-- were the ones he was warned against in law school, and the reasons he became an attorney. Most of the cases, however, didn’t involve talking animals-- from space, apparently-- as defendants.

“Hey.” The animal brightens up. “What if I got someone to fuck up his car _for_ me? Then, they can get sued on my part, right?”

“That,” He starts tightly, tempted to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Would be a crime. I’d then have an obligation to report that to the authorities.”

Or deal with it himself as Daredevil. There’s too much surfacing for that option, though.

“Bam! Then you could get me out of jail!”

Matt decides not to tell the creature that it’d end up in the nearest animal control center, not prison. “I don’t think I can represent you.”

Some part of him knows that it probably hates pity. That’s something they have in common. But another part of him still can’t come to terms with the whole situation of a talking animal wanting to sue a local billionaire. And yet _another_ part of him feels bad for not being any help, for not being able to say “I’ll take you case”, but knowing himself and how he seems to endanger the lives of everyone he comes in contact with, its best to let this one go.

“Well.” The animal sighs dejectedly. “It was worth a shot. I’ll just extort the guy for cash.”

All the sympathy he had dissipates. “You _can’t_ do that.”

“And why the hell not?”  
  
“Because that is _also_ a crime, and a bigger one than a car jacking.”  
  
“So, what? That’s what people like you are there for, right? You shouldn’t be complaining, Specs-- I’ll give you a job. And by the looks of it, you need it.”  
  
Yeah, he’ll give Matt Murdock a much-needed job, but one that Daredevil wants no part in. He has enough on his plate without having to deal with an aggressive, volatile, possibly armed, possibly alcoholic rodent. That would explain the gunpowder and the Jack Daniels. He grits his teeth.

“Please get out of my office.” He’s tempted to use the Daredevil Voice.

“Or what?” It taunts. “You’ll call animal control on me? Good luck, Mur _dick,_ because some chick already tried, and yet here I am. What’s that about the law being blind, huh? You don’t wanna represent me just because I’m a little furry? Well, I’ll have you know that is _discrimination_ , and under the Equal Rights Act, or something, I--”  
  
“Can get out of this office.” Matt finishes its sentence, ignoring all the misnomers. “I’d hate to make you.”  
  
There’s a moment of relative silence before the creature snarls and aims a punch at the nearest object-- which happens to be Matt’s desk. “Fine.” Its paw throbs from the impact. “I’ll go. But just know you’re a fucking hypocrite.”  
  
Matt doesn’t say it, but he thinks himself more of a dichotomy, anyway. He decides that even in an alternate universe where animals had legal standing, he wouldn’t have taken the case, and it's because he doesn’t defend crooks. The animal slinks out of the office, muttering curses too creative for Matt to admit to, and slams the door behind it with surprising strength. He sighs. It’s going to become Daredevil’s problem. It always does. Hopefully, though, the little prick will take him more seriously when being dangled by the tail from a rooftop.

Footsteps approach from down the hall. His door swings open almost as forcefully as it’d been shut. His office is always going to smell like Jack Daniels, isn’t it?  
  
“Miss Jones,” He greets the P.I that works at Alias Investigations-- the office right across from his. “Can I help you?”  
  
“Was there a raccoon in here?” Jessica Jones asks, abrasive as always. “A talking raccoon?”  
  
“Just left. You might want to check reports for any carjackings later in the night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is before the Defenders know each other, I guess. Or at least Jessica doesn't know that Matt is Daredevil. Or maybe she does. She's smart.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in this AU, the Defenders meet bc Rocket Raccoon was jacking a car

Luke tries to stay off the streets and keep to himself as of late. He got a job at another bar, he pays his bills and taxes, he keeps a low profile. It’s the most sensible thing to do after getting out of prison. One night, though, after clocking out from work, he can’t help but notice the carjacking going down across the street. 

“--  you hand over the money,  _ Mr. Fist.” _ __  
__  
It takes all of Luke’s self-control to keep walking. Car jackings are a normal occurrence in this part of the city.

“Listen, I  _ really  _ don’t want to hurt you.”   
  
“Ooh, or what, you’re gonna fist me?”   
  
Luke sighs and turns back towards the scene. The driver’s side of the car is next to the curb, but he’s seen enough of these to know there’s probably a gun pointed to the driver’s head. He sighs and prepares himself to deflect a bullet or two, but a glowing orange light coming from the car stops him in his tracks. 

“... You weren’t joking about the fist.”    
  
Right after that, there’s a loud animal-like squeal. Luke races across the street. The glow is gone, and the driver is getting out of the car. He’s a taller white guy with curly blond hair who is dressed much too casually to be driving a car so nice. He casually waves at Luke, who can only keep staring at the presumably dead raccoon lying on the sidewalk with a gun at its side.

“What the hell, man?” He questions the guy. “Did you just kill an animal?”   
  
“What? No, I didn’t kill him!” He answers, holding his hands up. “I just stunned him. He’s fine, look.”   
  
He nudges him with his foot. The raccoon stirs, but doesn’t get up. 

“Where’s the carjacker?” Luke asks.    
  
“Right here.” The other man again prods the raccoon. 

Luke blinks. “What?”   
  
“I’ve met him before.” The man sighs, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I kinda almost made him roadkill, but I didn’t expect him to talk. He’s kind of a jerk. His name is Rocket, I think.”   
  
Luke doesn’t know what to make of the situation. Raccoons don’t talk, and much less are they carjackers. They’re vermin, but usually better vermin than some humans. “That weird light. Was that you?”   
  
The man nods. “It’s-- Nevermind, it’s a  _ really  _ long story. I’m Danny Rand, by the way. I’m the Immortal Iron Fist.”   
  
“ _ You’re  _ Danny Rand?” Luke nearly scoffs. “As in the billionaire kid everyone thought was dead?”   
  
The presumed Danny Rand furrows his brow. “Uh, yeah. Is that hard to believe or something?”

Luke shakes his head. “Nah, it’s just…” He exhales loudly, looking back down at the raccoon, and then at the pretty white boy with a nice car and a glowing fist. The raccoon’s tail twitched. “That’s something.”

With a growl, the raccoon tries to get up. It grabs the gun on the sidewalk before Danny can get to it, and stands on its hind legs with one paw over its ribs and another on the trigger. Luke holds his hands up as it swings pointing the weapon back and forth between him and Danny. 

“I think you should drop that gun.” Luke advises it calmly. “You wouldn’t want to get hurt again, would you?”   
  
“And who the fuck are you?” The raccoon snarls in a too-human voice, swiveling towards Luke. Yup. Totally unsurprising. “Did the Immortal Iron Fister bring back up?”   
  
Danny sighs. “Rocket, drop the gun.”

“Fister.” Luke smirks. “He got you good there, admit it.”

“ _ I _ am not going  _ anywhere  _ till that asshole--” He points the muzzle back at Danny. “Gives me my goddamn money. He ran me over and left me there to  _ die.” _ __  
__  
“You made me give you my wallet!”   
  
“To  _ die!”  _ Rocket repeats. “All I’ve been trying to do is get money to buy parts to rebuild my ship so I can get back into space, but I guess that’s a fucking crime, ain’t it?”   
  
“If you wanted money you could’ve asked!”   
  
“That’s what I was  __ doing, Daniel!”

“You don’t point guns to people’s heads and then ask them for money, man.” Luke interjects amusedly. “It’s just not how things work in this neighborhood.” 

Rocket narrows his beady black eyes at Luke. They glisten maliciously under the harsh yellow light of the streetlamp above them. His finger strokes the trigger. 

“Listen, I don’t know who you are, but this ain’t the time to play hero, okay? This was a private conversation.”   
  
“Okay.” Luke shrugs. “And what are you gonna do about it?”   


The bullets, of course, run off him like water. Both Danny and Rocket look surprised. The latter fires another shot at Luke-- aimed right at his chest-- but it just bounces off. The raccoon shakes the gun, fires again, again, again, again, till he’s out of rounds. Luke raises a brow.

“You done?” He taunts. “Although, it ain’t the bullets, I’ll give you that.” He glances at Danny, who looks like he has questions. “Unbreakable skin.”

Rocket stands speechless. Then, with a roar of anger, he slams the pistol on the ground and starts stomping on it. He’s pretty strong for such a little guy, Luke figures. He picks the creature up by its scruff. 

“He’d be kinda cute, actually.” Luke mocks. “Y’know, if you took away his anger issues.”   
  
“ _ I. Am Not. Cute!”  _ The raccoon hisses and bares its teeth in an admittedly not-cute display of intimidation. 

“What do we do with him?” Danny asks, inching closer. “I mean, he’s dangerous and unstable. We can’t exactly set him out in the city.”   
  


“My first instinct when I see one of these things is to kill them.” Luke shrugs. “They’re pests. Entire places get fumigated because of them.”    
  
“We can’t  _ kill  _ him, though. Can we?”   
  
“You’re right. I’d feel bad killing a normal raccoon, much--”   
  
“I’m literally right here!” Rocket spits, writhing in Luke’s grip. “Can you please discuss your plans on killing me, I don’t know, some other time?”

Before Luke can suggest anything else, a familiar shout comes from behind them. He turns around-- raccoon still in hand-- to see Jessica Jones coming towards them. She looks the same as before, all dark clothes and dark hair, but there’s something about her that seems different. His grip on Rocket loosens a bit. 

“Hey!” She calls out again. “Are--  _ Luke?”  _ _  
_

“Jessica.” He nods curtly, unsure of what else to do. 

“Aww, shit.” Rocket sighs, reminding Luke to grip him tightly again. “You two know each other. Just when I thought this couldn’t get any better. Might as well invite that dick of a lawyer, the blind one, if we wanna have a reunion of all the people that have been utter pricks to me.”   
  
“You know him?” Luke shakes the raccoon. Jessica scoffs.

‘Wish I didn’t. The little shit was in my trash.”   
  
“I took her booze.” Rocket snickers.

“Shut up.” Jessica shoots him a nasty look. “Anyways, is Danny Rand here? Because this is his car.”   
  
“Yeah, hi.” Danny shoulders his way past Luke. “How do you know that’s my car?”   
  
“License plate. I kind of had to track it down to get a clue of where that asshole,” She gestures at Rocket. “Was heading.”   
  
Danny frowns. 

“I’m a P.I.” 

“Oh.”

Rocket goes limp in Luke’s grip. He frowns, shaking him, but the animal doesn’t react. Nice.    
  
“Is he dead?” Danny ventures curiously. 

“That would solve one of my problems.” Jessica mutters, but Luke pretends he didn’t hear her. 

_ “ _ He’s not dead.”   
  
Luke tilts his head back, trying to see the source of the voice. It sounded like it came from the rooftops, but they all seemed to be empty. Then, Jessica sighs. 

“Don’t tell me  _ that  _ asshole was up there.” She grumbles darkly. Before he can ask who “ _ that  _ asshole” is, something-- no, someone-- seems to materialize out of the shadows surrounding them. It’s only then, when Daredevil steps out into the dim light, that Luke gets his answer. 

“The raccoon is alive.” Daredevil’s voice is low and threatening. A pair of little horns poke up from his cowl, but they look much bigger and much more menacing in the shadow he casts. He must be fun at parties. “His heart is still beating. He’s only faking so you’ll let him go.”   
  
“How long were you up there?” Danny asks, looking up at the roof he seemed to have come from. 

“Long enough to know that this animal is a threat.” The Devil answers without even looking at him. “Give me the raccoon.”    
  
Luke narrows his eyes. “What are you going to do with him?”   
  
“Make it so he can’t run around my city anymore.”    
  
“You’re going to kill it?”    
  
“ _ Please  _ kill it.” Jessica says. 

“I’m--”    


“Yeah, don’t.” Danny pipes up. “He’s still an  _ animal--” _ __  
__  
“I’m not going to kill it!” 

Rocket stirs in Luke’s hand, giggling softly till it turns into full-blown laughter. Everyone directs their attention back towards him. 

“You guys really think a guy in a glorified cosplay costume is gonna kill me?” He cackles. “Seriously, I don’t know if you can see him that well without night vision, but  _ wow.  _ Hey, Devil Man, did you order it online or did you make it? Because they should shoot whoever came up with that ugly ass concept. Seriously, dude, you look like a giant condom. And the devil theme kinda failed. Like, it’s not even red-red!  _ Ha!”  _ __  
__  
Jessica snorts. Luke wonders how much of this she already knows, since she seems to have met the guy at least once. There’s a distinct rumble of a motorcycle or ten in the distance. Daredevil cocks his head towards the sound. Shitty costume or not, there’s something about him that is unnerving. 

“You all have to leave.” He says suddenly, head still turned towards the sound. “Now.”   
  
“Why?” Luke can’t help but ask, now suspicious.

“The Hand.” He answers sharply. “Couple of blocks away. They’re heading here.”   
  
“You know them too?” Danny looks much more serious.    
  
“Unfortunately. As I said, you all need to  _ go.” _ __  
__  
“Those wouldn’t be the ninjas I’ve been hearing about, would they?” Jessica furrows her brow. “The crazy death cult ones?”   
  
“Yes.” Both Danny and the Devil answer. She huffs.  
  
Luke hates feeling out of the loop. Somehow, everyone seems to know something about this-- the-- Hand but him. That tends to happen when you spend some time in prison, all cut off from the outside world, but he’s pretty sure death cult ninjas in New York would’ve made headlines across the nation. Fortunately, though, he isn’t the only one. 

“What the _fuck_ ,” Rocket starts. “Kind of name is The Hand?”

So much for keeping that low profile.

**Author's Note:**

> I love validation


End file.
